


Hooligans

by Sinful Words (MontanaHarper)



Category: American Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Blood, First Time, M/M, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-05
Updated: 2004-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Sinful%20Words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elijah's a little wound up after a day of filming and Charlie makes the wrong move...and then all the right ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hooligans

**Author's Note:**

> _Caveat lector._ Um, yeah. This is a disturbing little thing. Blood and sexualized violence and other unsavory stuff; if that's not your cuppa, you probably should just move along.
> 
> This just poured from my brain after I saw [pictures of Elijah and Charlie in make-up from Green Street Hooligans, their faces covered with "bruises" and "cuts."](http://sins.vaportraces.com/pics/hooligans.jpg)

The shooting schedule is absolutely brutal and the last hour has been filled with nearly nonstop "fistfights" that have left Elijah's body singing with adrenaline and endorphins and he's never quite had a buzz like this before. He thinks maybe this is how Orlando feels when he jumps off a 47-meter platform or out of an airplane, and he's wondering if he should have said yes one of the times Orlando asked him to go along when they were in New Zealand.

And then Lexi calls it a wrap for the day and Elijah's heading for his trailer, not really paying attention to what Charlie and Ross are doing. At least not until Charlie tackles him from behind just as he gets inside the doorway of his trailer and that's really no different from how they've been interacting all week except right now it pisses Elijah the fuck off and so he turns and throws a punch at Charlie, using everything he's learned in fight training, but he doesn't pull it.

Still, he's a little surprised when it connects—surprised that Charlie didn't block him and surprised at the pain that shoots through his hand as it connects to Charlie's jaw, snapping Charlie's head to the side with a sound Elijah not only hears but feels, echoed up through his arm.

He has just enough time to register the angry, red patch of skin on Charlie's jaw before he's doubling over under the onslaught of Charlie's fists, an uppercut to his stomach driving the air from his lungs and then a right hook that leaves him reeling and tasting blood. He falls back into the flimsy table that collapses with the impact, and then Charlie is on top of him and Elijah's blood is on fire, surging through his veins in a burning tracery of exhilaration as he pulls his leg back and kicks out, feeling first resistance and then give as his foot connects with Charlie's stomach and ribs and Charlie makes a small sound of surprise and pain that's erotic as hell and Elijah's cock is responding even as his mind is pulling back from the visceral reaction, telling him that it's wrong—perverse and disturbing—to get off on the pain he's feeling and causing.

He looks up, opening his mouth to say something, anything, in apology when his gaze is caught by a trickle of crimson at the corner of Charlie's mouth and he's frozen in place and then Charlie's on top of him, one hand fisted in the front of his shirt and the other impacting with his cheekbone once, twice, and each time white sparks burn bright in Elijah's vision and then fade, leaving a heavy black.

And he can't seem to speak, to move through the thick molasses that's trapping his limbs, and the blood is flowing freely in his mouth, spilling out over his lips, and Charlie is solid against him, is _hard_ against him and while he thinks he should be shocked, he's more aroused and furious than anything.

It's a bad angle, without much leeway, but he pulls his head back and then slams it into Charlie's face.

Charlie shouts and pulls back, but Elijah's fingers are tight on Charlie's hips and he doesn't get far, the blood dripping down from his nose to mingle with Elijah's, and then Elijah is thrusting his hips up, grinding his cock—hard and aching—against Charlie, whose eyes widen and then narrow.

"It's like that, is it," Charlie says, and his voice is huskier than usual, filled with something—passion? anger? both?—entirely new, and then his mouth is covering Elijah's, his teeth biting into Elijah's lips and drawing more blood to add to the almost sickeningly strong metallic taste in Elijah's throat.

Just like Charlie's teeth draw blood from Elijah's lips, Charlie's hips and cock are drawing a wild, feral sound from Elijah's throat, drawing an answering archthrust from Elijah's hips, and making his cock throb at the pleasurepain.

"Fuck," Elijah says and he's not sure if he means it as a curse or request. He's not sure, either, when fucking and fighting got so tied up together, let alone when the idea of Charlie's cock became such a fucking erotic thing, but now he's thinking that he wants to feel it—slicksliding against his own cock, hard and hot in his mouth, thick and blunt pushing into him—and the thought makes him moan against Charlie's shoulder.

Charlie grins down at him, widebright smile made more beautiful by a mouthful of blood, and then he's tangled his fingers in Elijah's hair and is jerking Elijah's head back hard enough that Elijah's eyes water. He opens his mouth to protest, but the sound that comes out is more like a moan than anything, and then Charlie's forearm is pressing against his bared throat and he can't breathe.

For the first time since Charlie jumped him, Elijah's truly afraid. His fingers scrabble at Charlie's arm, unable to gain purchase, and then Charlie's got Elijah's wrists in his hand and is pulling them up over Elijah's head, pinning them against the table, and his body is heavy on Elijah's and Elijah can't fucking move as splotches of black fill his vision, but even through the fear his cock is hard enough to hurt.

Charlie's grinding against him, the ebb and flow of pressure better than anything Elijah's felt before and Charlie eases up a little—enough for Elijah to pull in one shaky breath and then another—before pressing down again with both his forearm and his hips and this time the pushgrind of cock against cock, even through layers of denim and cotton, is too much.

Elijah's sure he's dying, his lungs close to bursting and Charlie's bloody grin swimming in front of his eyes, the only sound he can hear is the too-fast tattoo of his pulse echoing in his ears.

Instead of terror, though, all he can feel is the fire building in his belly and flowing down into his cock and balls, the tide of heat building until it has to overflow and he's coming, his body tensing and then going limp as everything begins to fade away into nothingness.

When Elijah opens his eyes, he can't remember at first where he is or why. Then he swallows, and the ache in his throat brings it all back: the fight, the...well, fucking, for lack of a better word.

He's still lying on the half-collapsed table, his head and neck and wrists aching, but his cock is no longer hard and Charlie is...gone.

Elijah sits up, his back protesting, then pushes himself to his feet and makes his way to the small bathroom. In the harsh fluorescent light, he's a wreck; his face is battered and bruised—most of it no longer courtesy of the make-up department—and one eye is beginning to swell shut. His t-shirt is covered in red-brown spatters of drying blood and viscous white globs that can only be Charlie's spunk.

Lexi is going to kill him for getting himself beat to a pulp, as is Meghan in wardrobe for the disaster that is his shirt, but neither of those things is really important right now.

Right now, all he's thinking about is when he'll be able to see Charlie alone again.


End file.
